Tag Archives: Damon Suede

Please accept out warmest Holiday Greeting from Eden Freed and her staff. Tonight we will suggest a Holiday Favorite cocktail: Puerto Rican Coquito! A thick and creamy coconut drink traditionally made for Christmas.

“First and foremost I would like to thank all the wonderful authors who have contributed to my blog so far. I know many of you are having a blast at the #RWA16, I wish you success and lots of fun. You are all amazing and I could not have done this without you. For those readers who missed their posts, I’ll make it easier for you to catch up, just use the links below.”

“This week instead of just one featured cocktail I went with two. Variations of both drinks often crisscross, so have a Hollywood Cocktail and a Raspberry Smash and think about our favorite starlet, Violet. A couple of these gets me in the mood to continue her second adventure in the Acting the Part Series.”

“Can’t wait to release book two, but in the mean time, take a look at book one “Violet Blooms” and get ready for things to get shaken up.”

While we’re chatting, lots of our favorite characters will be back to shake things up in book two. Be ready for a virtual rollercoaster ride, as Violet perfects her art and gives the performance of a lifetime. Kick back and relax for a moment with these delicious beverages, and read up about Violet Blooms. (now also available on iTunes)

A young aspiring actress, majoring in Theater Arts in her last semester of school, must overcome mediocrity and learn to take direction in time to be discovered by a talent scout during her final performance. Her new acting coach decides to teach her direction through a non-conventional method: introduction to BDSM. Will Violet have what it takes to learn the art of role playing or will she end up on the “casting couch?”
Here is an excerpt from our book:

Excerpt:

Jericho Blythe sighed, “Chase was right. You are a handful. Let’s go back to rule number one.” He opened another file, Rules. “Rule one. Speak only when spoken to. I can train you better than any actress to anticipate and respond to direction. I give orders. You take orders. It will be like dancing.” He put an arm around my waist and I gasped. “I’ll lead and you’ll follow. If your timing is right, it will be beautiful and if something is off I will offer correction until you achieve perfection. Perfection is what a director will expect from you. He will not tolerate excuses.”

My eyes widened. Some part of my idle brain woke up and understood what he was talking about. I backed away from him. This was more than I bargained for. I shook my head no.

“Rule three,” Blythe said.

“No way. You thought I was, that I was…” I started laughing.

Blythe looked furious. His blue green eyes got squinty and the corners of his mouth turned down a little before I saw him reach behind the counter for something and walk toward the couch. Looking at his serious face made me laugh even harder. I grabbed my middle with one hand and covered my mouth with the other. My eyes began to tear from trying to hold the laugh in but it didn’t last long. The thought that I could be into that, whatever it was, kink, was more than my fragile mind could take. In a moment, I was near hysterical with laughter.

He sat down on the round red leather couch and pulled me over his knee. Slowly, Blythe explained that my actions required punishment. He asked for me to consent to punishment. I thought the better of shaking my head no and a little voice inside jumped out and agreed. Yes! Yes, please!

I felt him lift the back of my skirt up and tug my panties down. Crack! I felt a sharp but brief pain on my rear and then his firm hand rubbing the sore spot. It was electric. I was melting into the sensation, melting into his strong warm hand on my tender skin. I didn’t understand why, but instantly I loved it. You’re crazy. What are you doing, Violet? Wake up, stupid!

The shock of what I was feeling had me up to my feet, pulling up my panties, and heading out the door. What WAS I doing? I wanted to stay and I wanted to run. My body followed the latter suggestion. Blythe didn’t shadow me even though I wanted him to. I walked quickly past people clueless to what had happened only a moment ago. Their eyes seemed focused and restrained, but I felt as wild and reckless as the night. I was down the block at the crosswalk before I decided to turn around. My feet carried me back to the shop as though I no longer had a will of my own. My owns thoughts frightened me and I felt my heart beat in a quick rhythm trying to get oxygen to the brain that was clearly working against me, against the very nature of my being. How could I want more?

Blythe was typing on the keyboard, when I opened the door. He picked up his head long enough to smile at me. I bit my lower lip, wondering what was next. My heart was still racing and my cheeks felt warm. I needed reassurance. Mentally, I was torturing myself for my excitement over something I had been told countless times was wrong.

My own mother, Barbara, never even raised a hand to me. Any time I made a mistake or irritated her, I spent some ‘quality time’ in the corner while she sat there chatting on the computer with her latest internet flame. Come to think of it, I spent an awful lot of time in the corner, maybe too much time. As I stood there pondering the misgivings of my childhood, Blythe looked up and spoke.

“Remind me to shackle you next time before you are punished. Fight or flight response is normal but I want you to be as safe as possible. Feeling any better?”

“Yes,” I said but my mind was racing.

“Yes, Master Blythe,” he said.

“Yes, Master Blythe,” I repeated, slowly, almost vacantly. He handed the iPad back to me.

“Read through the rules. We’ll talk shop later. Make sure you understand the rules first,” he said but what did any of it really mean? How could I even know? There was a part of myself that I was just waking up to, a part I didn’t even know was there hiding under my skin like a wolf in sheep’s clothing.

Blythe was patient and waited for me to collect my thoughts. He stood there without any condescending looks or giggles. I chewed on my lower lip confused and excited at the prospect of this new me I had found.

Today we will feature a new recipe from Damon Suede, author of homoerotic romance.

Here is a word from Damon:

Hey y’all! Thanks so much for coming to hang out today. The drink I named for today’s post is a dirty whiskey.

Now normally I don’t go for mixed drinks. My family always taught me you should be able to see the bottom of the glass before you drink anything, but dirty whiskeys are something special.

The first dirty whiskey I ever had was made for me by Heidi Cullinan at RT in Chicago several years back. It was Saturday night and it had been a crazy-great week and we were about to cut loose at the big Harlequin party. She mixed up about a half-gallon of dirty whiskeys and the next thing I knew I was dancing an acrobatic samba with a professional ballroom dancer in the middle of about 1500 people. I met so many great friends that night. And there are pictures from that party where I’m dropped back into a bridge with my head aimed at the floor.

The moral is: if you can’t see the bottom of the glass, make sure your friends mixed it and the dance floor is big enough to hold all the people you want to meet. 🙂

Dirty Whiskey Recipe:

1 Part Bailey’s Irish cream

1 Part Irish Whiskey

Mix in a mixing cup by shaking with ice, pour through a strainer… oh yeah, then enjoy while we look at Damon Suede’s latest book PENT UP.

Ruben Oso moves to Manhattan to start his life over as a low-rent bodyguard and stumbles into a gig in a swanky Park Avenue penthouse. What begins as executive protection turns personal working for a debonair zillionaire who makes Ruben question everything about himself.

Watching over financial hotshot Andy Bauer puts Ruben in an impossible position. He knows zero about shady trading and his cocky boss lives barricaded in a glass tower with wall-to-wall secrets and hot-and-cold running paranoia. Can the danger be real? Is Andy for real?

What’s a bulletcatcher to do? Ruben knows his emotions are out of control even as he races to untangle a high-priced conspiracy and his crazy feelings before somebody gets dead. If his suspicions are right, Andy will pay a price neither can afford and Ruben may discover there’s no way to guard a heart.

Lets read a little excerpt taken from Chapter 5:

Ruben laced his fingers together in his lap, conscious of Andy’s splayed legs bumping against his as the car curved through the dark trees.

How could it only have been a week? Joking and bickering like this, smiling and snapping at each other, they sounded like… something else.

The town car veered to the left and Ruben had to grip the door to keep from being shifted against his boss’s strong legs. They passed under some kind of bridge and then slowed to a stop. They inched along in the Park’s crosstown traffic.

He could imagine himself on Andy’s terrace staring down at Central Park. He looked out the window at the passing trees: nature boxed in so a few penthouses had something to look at.

Andy rolled his head to watch Ruben watching him.

Buddies. Yeah, right.

Andy pushed himself back, shifting his weight. His hand scraped Ruben’s and… remained on the seat, separated by a millimeter or two. The light hair on his wrist brush-brushed the wisps on Ruben’s, rocked by the car’s motion.

Ruben swallowed. He wanted to slide the hand away from the delicious feathery scrape, and at the same time wondered how long Andy would leave it there. He wondered what would happen if he closed his dark square paw over Andy’s, laced their fingers and squeezed. He could imagine the way their knuckles would intersect and the exact pressure of Andy’s smooth palm against his. That skin.

Occasionally the car jostled them as it navigated potholes and pedestrians, gently rocking their shoulders, but their two hands stayed nailed to the firm, soft leather, barely touching, but touching nonetheless. That warm strip of Andy’s hand made it hard to breathe.

Why didn’t Andy move his arm back? Then again, why wouldn’t he? As the car glided under the black trees, Ruben’s whole being, all his attention, tightened around the half-inch of faint contact between their skin. Ruben imagined he could feel Andy’s pulse, then realized he was hearing his own as it jarred his skull.

If the brushing contact wasn’t an accident, removing his hand first would send a clear message. Easier to leave it there in case.

In case of what?

In case he was a queer? In case his boss was another? In case they needed to go out together to spend another fifty thousand American dollars to buy nothing in particular in a room full of strangers? The money and the man had gotten all jumbled in his head.

Maybe that was it. Ruben had gotten sucked in by all the sloppy luxury and forgotten whose it was. He wasn’t gay, just broke, sober, and lonely. Even if Andy was some kind of closeted homo, he had no interest in playing house with some middle-aged macho he’d known for a few days and rescued from a couch. Ruben had clocked the predator in him. If Andy wanted a dude, he’d lease some Calvin Klein model with a trust fund and a degree in corporate espionage.

And still, and still…. The butterfly stroke of Andy’s wrist hairs dried his mouth and pricked his eyes, and Andy had no clue. I want him.

All too suddenly, the car sliced out of the trees across Fifth, headed east.

Damon Suede grew up out-n-proud deep in the anus of right-wing America, and escaped as soon as it was legal. He has lived all over: Houston, New York, London, Prague. Along the way, he’s earned his crust as a model, a messenger, a promoter, a programmer, a sculptor, a singer, a stripper, a bookkeeper, a bartender, a techie, a teacher, a director… but writing has ever been his bread and butter. He has been happily partnered for over a decade with the most loving, handsome, shrewd, hilarious, noble man to walk this planet.

Addictions: sweetness that isn’t sentimental, wit that isn’t bitter, strength that isn’t cruel. Allergies: professional victims, half-assery, clichés. Damon is a proud member of the Romance Writers of Americaand served as the 2013 president for the Rainbow Romance Writers, RWA’s LGBT romance chapter.

Though new to gay romance, Damon has been writing for print, stage, and screen for two decades, which is both more and less glamorous than you might imagine. He’s won some awards, but his blessings are more numerous: his amazing friends, his demented family, his beautiful husband, his loyal fans, and his silly, stern, seductive Muse who keeps whispering in his ear, year after year.